by Sara Rosett
***
“I think I got off pretty easily with Olney,” I said. Alex and I were at the White Duck having dinner. I ate the last golden fry—or chip, as Alex had informed me I should refer to them.
“Becca’s news did overshadow yours,” he said.
I’d confessed all about the camera memory card. Olney had talked to us first and then said we could leave. When we left the bridge, he was still asking Becca questions. “Pushing someone’s car into the river is a bit more dramatic than ‘I found a memory card with some pictures.’ ”
Alex put down his pint of beer and smiled. “True, but both were valuable bits of news.”
“Oh, I know. And I’m not upset at all to have Becca in the police spotlight. I’m glad she’s there instead of me.”
“Yes, I’d venture to say she enjoys the spotlight.”
As soon as Alex had ended his call with Sergeant Olney, Becca had threatened to leave so she could call her lawyer. But leaving would have involved walking over the trails back to her house. The lack of transportation combined with the fact that Olney looked as if he could pose on a law enforcement beefcake calendar meant that Becca was retelling her version of events, relishing Olney’s undivided attention.
I pushed away the empty plate that contained only crumbs from my fish and chips. “Do you think she’s telling the truth? That Kevin really was okay when she left?”
“I can’t imagine her making up the story.”
“And hurting Kevin might take her further away from her goal of having Grove Cottage used in the production,” I said. “Is it possible she didn’t realize that? That she thought killing him would make it easier to get her home used?”
Alex shrugged. “Becca isn’t one to think deeply about things.”
“You think she was angry and acted on that emotion impulsively? That would make it a crime of passion.” I paused a moment, considering it, then said, “Yes, I can totally see that happening.”
Alex nodded, “It could have happened that way, but then why would she admit to being at the river and pushing Kevin’s car into the water? It would be better to deny everything or clam up completely until the police actually linked her to the scene.”
“Not talking doesn’t seem to be her strong suit,” I said.
“That’s true.” Alex wiped his hands on his napkin and pushed his plate away. “As astounding as Becca’s explanation was, I’m leaning toward believing her. At least the bare bones of her story. Now, whether it really was an accidental graze of her car bumper—I’m not so sure.”
I nodded. “I can imagine her anger flaring up and her flooring it. Her mood changes are…mercurial.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Of course, if everything goes her way, then she’s fine.”
“She’s the type of woman who always has something that doesn’t go her way.”
Alex raised his beer in agreement. “You said that, not me.”
“I keep thinking about Kevin alone out there. If only he’d called someone.”
“Cell phone coverage is spotty along there. You saw how hard it was for me to find a signal, and he probably didn’t have True Call, best service of the Midlands. Or, maybe his phone was dead.”
“That is a definite possibility. He was always running the battery down and forgetting to charge it at night,” I said. “Becca’s news may explain why his car was in the water, but we still don’t know what happened to him, how he ended up in the water downstream. And it doesn’t explain his broken leg or the head injury either. The drop to the water isn’t a cliff. It’s not like he’d have multiple impacts if he fell or was pushed. He’d probably hit once, if that, then be in the water.” My stomach turned as I pictured it, and wished I hadn’t eaten such a heavy, greasy meal.
Alex dipped his head to look at my downturned face. “You look a little pale. Feeling okay?”
“Thinking about him in the water…it bothers me.”
“Yeah, me too.” After a few beats of silence, Alex said, “You know, I don’t know what your favorite Jane Austen book is. We’ve already covered mine.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve only read one.”
“There you go. My favorite. Which is yours? You were an English grad student, so it’s practically required, right?”
“Yes, mandatory for admission to the program. I have a special place in my heart for Northanger Abbey, but it’s not my absolute favorite.”
“You say that almost reluctantly.”
“Northanger Abbey is sort of the redheaded stepchild of Austen’s books. It’s often considered a bridge book between her juvenilia and her ‘adult’ books, but I love the teasing banter between Catherine and Mr. Tilney and the discussion of novels and books and reading. My all-time favorite is quite run-of-the-mill. It’s Pride and Prejudice, of course.”
“And why is that?”
“It’s brilliant. Brilliantly written. The plot, the dialogue, the characters. Austen really was a genius.” I leaned back in my chair. “I planned to write my dissertation on it.”
“What about?”
“I wanted to explore Austen’s contrast of appearance versus reality. Judgments are made about a character based on a person’s appearance and manners, but often those judgments are completely wrong.”
“Hmm…yes, like Wickham.”
“Exactly. He’s accepted because he’s handsome, charming, and has a good address, but inside he’s a lazy, selfish man willing to ruin a young woman’s reputation to further his own goals. Mr. Darcy is his foil. Outwardly perceived to be cold and proud, but inwardly he is honorable and responsible. The surface, the outer appearance, is often different from the interior, the heart,” I said, and I couldn’t help but wonder if someone in Nether Woodsmoor had put up an excellent front to mask the evil inside them. Becca could have killed Kevin, but if she was telling the truth and Kevin was alive when she left that meant the murderer was still out there.
I glanced at Alex. His face was serious, and I wondered if his thoughts were running along the same lines as mine. “This conversation is way too deep—and probably too boring,” I said. “You’re nice to indulge an English lit major and let me run on.”
Alex’s phone, which was on the table between us, rang. A picture of a daisy appeared on the screen above the name Grace.
Alex said, “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.” A burst of laughter sounded from a table behind us, and he put his hand over his other ear. He spoke a few words, then said, “Hold on a moment.” He made an apologetic face and stepped outside. Louise cleared the empty plates, and I told myself that it was perfectly fine that Alex had gotten a call from someone named Grace, and that I hadn’t felt a small flare of…jealousy? No, it couldn’t be that. I barely knew Alex. I was irritated, nothing more, at the interruption. That was it. That had to be it. He was a colleague.
A colleague who happened to be very easy on the eyes, an internal voice whispered. And extremely nice. He’d brought me coffee and spent his time shuttling me around the countryside. I firmly squashed that internal voice. Colleague, I reminded myself. It was best to keep things professional.
Alex returned, but didn’t take his seat again. “I have to go. If you’re going to the inn, I’ll walk you back.”
I hesitated.
“Or, if you’re staying here, I’ll shove off.”
The pub was getting more crowded by the minute. I didn’t really want to stick around. “No, I’m ready.”
Twilight filled the sky with a ruddy glow, backlighting the stone buildings. The air was sharp and even cold. I shoved my hands in the pockets of my peacoat, and we paced along silently, but it wasn’t the comfortable quiet of earlier in the day. Now it seemed strained—at least it did to me. Alex didn’t offer an explanation of who Grace was, and I didn’t ask. She could be a friend or a business contact. Or a girlfriend, whispered the little voice. Okay, yes, a girlfriend. That was a possibility, too. That thought irritated me. I didn’t want to examine why.
&nbs
p; We reached the inn and crossed the courtyard. Alex opened the door and stepped into the entrance area, but kept his hand on the door. “About tomorrow…I won’t be around. I have to go to Sheffield.”
“Yes, of course. You’ve already taken more time with me than you should have. You need to keep up your business.”
“Oh, you know how this business is. It comes in fits and starts, with dry spells in between.”
“Yes. Thanks for dinner.” I reached for my wallet. “I should pay you back for mine.” He’d ordered our food at the bar and paid for it before I had a chance to offer.
“No, don’t worry about it. You can get it next time.” He pushed open the door.
I turned to climb the stairs slowly, feeling just the tiniest bit blue. Jet-lag, probably. Yes, I decided, picking up my pace, that was it. An eight-hour time change does make you draggy. A good night’s sleep was all I needed.
***
Unfortunately, a good night’s sleep wasn’t what I got. I tossed and turned, sleeping fitfully for a few hours, then came awake and stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours. My internal clock was good and messed up. Finally, as dawn began to filter through the curtains, I dropped off into a deep sleep. I woke several hours later and groped for my phone. Ten-thirty. I scrubbed my hand across my face, thinking that a late morning nap was not the best cure for jet-lag. I felt better after a shower. Henry, who was shutting down the breakfast service, brought me a cup of coffee and some crumpets. I sat down in the empty restaurant to use the inn’s free Wi-Fi.
I’d brought my personal cell phone as well as the burner phone Marci had given me. While I waited for my email to load, I checked both phones. I hoped the burner phone would have a message from Quimby. The revelations about Becca had to have steered the investigation toward her, but the only message I had was from Sergeant Olney, informing me that the inquest would be held next week. The call had come in while I was showering, and I wished I had been able to speak to him. Did the scheduling of the inquest mean that Becca was the murderer, or was scheduling the date unrelated to the new information around Becca? I returned the call, but was only able to leave a voicemail with my questions. Almost immediately, a text came back from Olney stating that he couldn’t release any information about the case.
I sighed and moved on to scanning the messages on my personal phone. A text message from Terrance headed the list. I’d called him yesterday and left him a voicemail telling him about Kevin’s death. I frowned as I opened the text. I’d expected him to call back, not text.
Sorry to hear about Kevin. That’s rough. Call me when you’re back.
That’s rough? That was his idea of comfort and support? I deleted the text, disappointed that he hadn’t even felt the need to call me. My mother had been right about my “relationship” with Terrance, it seemed. It wasn’t a relationship at all. We were just two people who exchanged a lot of texts and occasionally met for a meal. I realized that I wasn’t even that sad. I didn’t feel even the tiniest urge to indulge in my two break-up comfort foods, chocolate or fettuccine alfredo.
I straightened my shoulders and refocused on my texts. There would be time to sort out my love life later—or just get a love life. I dealt quickly with texts from a few friends and several from my mom, but paused over the last text from Janie, a production manager I’d worked with on a shoot last year. Can you send me Zara’s new phone number? Saw her in the international terminal at JFK last week. Couldn’t get through security fast enough to catch her.
I texted back Zara’s current phone number with a frown. Surely Janie was mistaken. Zara had said she was in Chicago sorting out some legal stuff with her ex-husband.
My email finally loaded, and I saw a message from Marci had come in overnight. She still hadn’t heard back from Mr. O’Leery.
To see if there were any hints or rumors about the future of the P & P project, I did an Internet search. A couple of tribute pieces in industry news sources topped the results, mostly recaps of Kevin’s career—tame stuff compared to the guesswork going on in the Internet forums, which abounded with speculation about what had happened. The secrecy of the scouting trip had only fueled the guesswork. Theories ranged from Kevin’s participation in some unknown super-secret project of Mr. O’Leery’s to the more sordid hints that Kevin was involved in an affair.
As I scrolled through the list of threads that mentioned Kevin’s name on one Internet forum, I stopped on one titled, “Kevin Dunn’s Death: Cui bono?” I clicked the link and read the first post. “All this speculation about hush-hush projects is just fodder to obscure the obvious. Who benefits from Kevin Dunn’s death? The answer is easy—his employees. One of the women in his office will step into his shoes, take over his clients, and be sitting pretty in a few months.”
Had Quimby seen this? Was this post the reason he’d questioned me so closely about taking over Kevin’s business? Did the police search Internet forums? It didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility, especially with all the government surveillance that went on now. A modern police investigation probably included a web search.
I quickly scrolled through the replies, which accused the original poster of doing nothing more than trotting out a new conspiracy theory. Other posts agreed that the theory was possible. The original poster chimed in again. “Interesting tidbit. Just heard that one of the employees, Kate Sharp, arrived in England after he disappeared. Anyone know anything about her? Is she the type to take a short cut and help herself get to the top?”
Stunned and sickened, I skimmed through the rest of the comments, but the thread took a detour at that point and people began to discuss what was okay and not okay in going after jobs in the entertainment industry. The consensus seemed to be that it was so hard to get a foot in the door that a little sneaky manipulation was fine. The last post read, “Yeah, sure, I understand times are tough and getting a start or a leg up in this business is hard, but murder? That’s over the line.”
I wanted to close my laptop and go…wash my hands or something. I felt slimy. I couldn’t believe that anyone would think I was out to take Kevin’s place and that I’d resort to murder to achieve that goal. Another piece of advice from Kevin flitted through my mind: “Forewarned is forearmed. Find out everything you can—even the bad stuff. It’ll help you in the end.”
I blew out a deep breath and went back to the top of the thread. The original poster’s screen name was “FilmGeek27,” and had a very thin profile. No posts prior to the post about me and only a few more comments made that same day. I searched a few more forums and found one other mention of my name, with the same accusations, this time from “CinemaGuru,” which again was a recently created profile with only a smattering of posts on the day my name was brought up and then nothing since then.
I slapped the laptop closed and dropped it off in my room, then picked up my camera and tote bag and went outside. I needed a good brisk walk to clear my head. Steel-gray clouds hung low and a strong, cold breeze whipped across my face, making my eyes water, but I pressed on, up the steep climb to the top of Strange Hill. The gloomy, wild weather was a match for my mood. As I paused at the top, catching my breath and taking in the view of Grove Cottage, I felt better after the exercise. The little valley was quiet except for the tree branches, which were shaking in the wind, and a few cars moving along the roads. One of them was a small red car, and I squinted, trying to see if it was Alex, but then a big dog popped up through the open passenger window and turned its nose into the wind…so probably not Alex.
I pulled my camera out of my tote bag and snapped some pictures of the village as well as a few close-ups of ivy climbing up the stone wall. The village had too many present-day features like street signs and electric street lights, not to mention pavement. We couldn’t use it in the production, but I liked the rows of golden stone cottages. These photos would be just for me.
I contemplated the trail that the two ramblers had taken, considering whether or not I should continue my walk,
but decided I should return to the village. Hiking a trail sounded like a nice way to spend the morning, even in the blustery weather, but it wouldn’t bring any answers about what had happened to Kevin. Instead of returning to the inn, I went to the pub for lunch, hoping I could pick up some news or even rumors about the investigation.
They had classic pub grub like fish and chips and cottage pie, which sounded good, but it was described as a serving for two. For a second, I wished Alex was with me, so we could split it, but I squashed the thought and ordered a chicken and bacon sandwich from the more contemporary section of the menu. I didn’t see Louise. A guy who I guessed was in his mid-twenties with blue eyes, an angular face, and a fringe of black hair dipping over his eyes brought my food. He disappeared, so there was no opportunity to chat with him, and the few other patrons in the pub were absorbed in their own meals and didn’t look as if they wanted to chat with a stranger. My food was delicious and as I devoured it, I pulled out my Moleskine notebook. If I couldn’t find someone to talk to, I could at least get my thoughts down on paper.
I printed the word, “Possibilities,” across the top of a clean page. “Suspects” seemed too presumptuous. I wasn’t a detective, but there was value in getting everything down on paper. Managing projects had taught me that.
I wrote for a few minutes, then read over my list.
1. Frank Revel—Argued publicly with Kevin and had a falling out with him years ago, but would he attack Kevin after fifteen years?
2. Becca Ford—Determined that Grove Cottage will be Longbourn. Admits to being near the place where Kevin’s body was found and to pushing his car into the river. Was Kevin really alive when she left? Mercurial mood changes. Crime of passion?
3. Eve Wallings—Opposed to us using Coventry House. Very intense in her protection of her uncle. Would she kill Kevin, thinking that would keep us out of Coventry House?
4. Random act of violence?
5. Unknown person with unknown motive?
